


dawn

by elizajane



Series: and behold, it was so very good [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Breakfast, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Morning After, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-07 19:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: Aziraphale wakes with the dawn, as he always does, aware that the universe has shifted.





	dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaydeun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/gifts).



> For Jaydeun. Happy pride and welcome home. 
> 
> And thanks, as ever, to Crowgirl for the beta.

Aziraphale wakes with the dawn, as he always does, aware that the universe has shifted. He can hear a dove cooing on the window ledge, smell the bread in the ovens of the bakery down the lane, feel the slight breeze that is stirring the faded chintz curtains. A delivery van from the grocers is idling on the pavement below, Su Lin no doubt making the driver her customary macchiato with the coconut cream. He sends a small, angelic nudge in the direction of Lizzie, the driver, encouraging her to notice the hope of Su Lin's smile when she brings the drink outside.

All of this is as it should be on a fair weather day in London. The breathtaking novelty of this _particular_ morning can be found inside the flat -- in Aziraphale's own bed, in fact -- where Crowley -- _Crowley_ \-- is asleep within Aziraphale’s reach, looking as if he has never belonged anywhere as fully as he belongs beneath more than his fair share of Aziraphale’s favorite tartan-print duvet.

Aziraphale shifts carefully on the mattress, not wishing to wake Crowley just yet. He knows from experience that when Crowley commits to sleep he does so with an intensity of purpose that few earthly events can disturb. And they _had_ had a rather eventful night. All the same, Aziraphale wouldn’t want to be responsible for the sort of low-level irritations that might spread if he jostles Crowley awake prematurely: parking tickets, cracked mobile screens, unknotted shoe laces, spilt coffee, a just-missed crosstown omnibus.

No, best to let Crowley sleep at least a little longer. But that doesn’t mean Aziraphale cannot _consider_ him. He rolls onto his side toward Crowley -- it’s been how many decades since they fell asleep side by side on a _bed?_ The last time had been a dampish crofter’s cottage on Arran, Aziraphale thinks … had that been in 1897 or ‘79? He remembers the dawn on that morning, too, and the way the damp had given Crowley reason to curl into Aziraphale’s side. It had been lovely. Neither of them have spoken of it since.

It’s warm, on this July day in the present, and Crowley is currently sprawled on his belly, wheezing slightly into his pillow. The duvet has slipped while they slept, revealing the bright flashes of color that are Crowley's scales: carmine, tourmaline, obsidian. Most pronounced along his spine, they spread across his back, eventually fading into more human-looking skin over his shoulders, around the curve of his ribcage. Aziraphale has been fascinated by them for centuries and now, for the first time, he has full permission to _linger_. He reaches out and brushes back the tangle of hair that obscures Crowley's face, earning a small frown, then slides his palm over the cool curve of Crowley's shoulder to the place between his shoulder blades where the snakeskin gleams supple and smooth.

A handful of hairpins beside Aziraphale's waterglass are all that remain of his careful work of the night before. Aziraphale flushes as he remembers Crowley kneeling between Aziraphale's thighs, bending low to press teasing kisses against Aziraphale's jaw as Aziraphale fumbled blindly for the pins, feeling the tumble of soft hair come loose in his fingers. Crowley had moaned, soft and aching, into Aziraphale's mouth as Aziraphale's fingers dug into his hair to hold him closer and Aziraphale had burned with knowledge that would never belong in any report, knowledge that was for him and Crowley alone, and possibly God for God had made the world and said that it was good, and Crowley was so, so _good_.

Aziraphale slides his palm down Crowley's back from the nape of his neck to the dip just above his buttocks where the duvet has come to rest. Then smooths his hand over the swell of Crowley's arse, fingertips teasing along the crease as he traces back upward in the morning light. It's a marvel that he doesn't have to force himself to _not_ : The habit of millennia crumbling overnight with the force of Crowley's _Yes._

Crowley slits his eyes open, tongue flicking out black and forked to taste his surroundings. The grumpy morning glare is Crowley, through and through, and Aziraphale feels a wash of relief that this hasn't changed; that the familiarity borne of over two million days spent on earth with this creature hasn't been rendered useless by a single night of newfound intimacies. Crowley is still Crowley. Just _more_ so. Aziraphale licks his own lips and fancies he can still taste Crowley there.

Crowley watches him for a moment longer before closing his eyes again. He mutters something akin to _Azirahumphmm_ into the pillow and burrows deeper with an inhuman, full-body wriggle. Aziraphale feels a clench of response deep inside, his physical form finally understanding -- more than just theoretically -- what it's like to have all that muscle wrapped around him, _hungry_ for him. What Crowley sounds like (breathless, furious, surprised) when he comes.

It's a gift worth more than Heaven itself, Aziraphale thinks blasphemously, to know both the grumpy morning Crowley and the Crowley who looked lost the night before, bewildered and wanting. Aziraphale has been certain for millennia that he's not meant to feel this way about any being, let alone Crowley. His superiors -- the _proper_ angels to whom he reports -- would never understand the _necessity_ of Crowley. There are _rules_. And Aziraphale’s love for Crowley breaks every one of them. They only see a demon, any demon, each interchangeable with the next. All representing disobedience, chaos, confusion, uncertainty. _Doubt_.

Angels don't do well in the face of doubt.

Aziraphale hadn't either, until Crowley sauntered in and made him doubt everything -- and gladly.

Aziraphale pulls the duvet up over Crowley's back to keep the warmth in, then slides out of bed and pulls on his robe. He makes his way quietly down the short flight of stairs from the garrett bedroom into the sun-filled kitchen. He hadn't expected Crowley to stay, but there's tea, and roast apricots, clotted cream and day-old scones from Su Lin's bakery. He puts the kettle on and tidies up the pizza box and empty wine glasses from the night before. He finds the keys to the Bentley under a dropped napkin and deposits them on the table by the front door next to Crowley’s glasses. 

An ambulance passes by two streets over and he pushes just a bit of grace in the direction of the sound: clear crosswalks and steady hands to aid where aid is needed. 

"You _left_ ," Crowley accuses from the stairs, just as the kettle begins its cheerful whistle. He hasn't stopped to put any clothes on, and Aziraphale nearly drops the teacups he's carrying to the counter.

"I had plans to _return_ ," he points out, gesturing illustratively with the teacups toward the breakfast tray and the steaming kettle. “I rather thought you might be hungry after -- well. Hungry.” He feels his ears turn pink.

Crowley’s lips twitch. He slouches in the doorway, arms crossed and a shoulder to the jamb, to watch as Aziraphale fills the teapot and retrieves the pitcher of cream from the icebox. Aziraphale is always aware of Crowley's presence, a slight _fizz_ in the back of his mind, whether Crowley is in the same room or several counties away. The bumblebee hum of Crowley's well-being has been with Aziraphale for so long he wouldn't have said, twenty-four hours ago, that Crowley in his kitchen would ever be disconcerting. And yet, Aziraphale finds himself flustered. He wishes to rest his eyes on Crowley's form, so beautifully on display in the morning light, and at the same time cannot quite bring himself to look Crowley in the eye. He opens a drawer looking for spoons only to look down and realize he's opened a drawer that hasn't contained spoons since 1967. He shuts it again.

"You'll get cold," Aziraphale snaps, sharper than intended, and feels his face burn because he knows Crowley is watching and taking in every detail.

"I'm sure you'll find a way to warm me up," Crowley responds in a tone that had likely begun with the intention of sounding cocksure but comes out breathy, almost pleading. It’s a tone that takes Aziraphale back to the night before, when he had pressed a line of kisses down Crowley's chest and nipped just _so_ at the pucker of a dusky brown nipple. He abandons his search for the spoons and turns, scrubbing his fingers through his own bed-tousled hair as he crosses over to where Crowley still stands on the threshold of the room -- waiting, Aziraphale thinks illogically, as if for some sort of invitation.

 _Stay_ is the only word that comes to mind.

"If -- if you want me to," Crowley says, that same shocked note to his voice, and Aziraphale realizes he's said it aloud. Or at least thought it on a frequency Crowley can hear. He drops his hands from his head and finds himself stroking down Crowley's flanks -- cool, not yet cold -- oh, he should get this exasperating being back to bed -- to settle his hands at the juncture where Crowley's hips meet thighs. Crowley sways toward him as if bidden, and perhaps Aziraphale has commanded him with touch alone.

"I do, my dear," Aziraphale murmurs aloud. "Very much."

Crowley swallows, audibly, lifting his hands to grip the front of Aziraphale's robe. Aziraphale clings to Crowley's hips and resists the centuries of self-discipline that have enabled him to let Crowley go over and over again.

He isn't willing, any longer, unless Crowley wants him to. And judging from Crowley's white-knuckled grip -- and, well, the rather glorious and intimate things they had done together last night -- Aziraphale has reason to believe that Crowley no longer wishes to flee. He thinks about Crowley's keyfob and sunglasses, sitting where Crowley always leaves them on the umbrella stand by his front door. He wonders if the Bentley has been ticketed for parking overnight without a permit. Crowley doesn't believe in permits but if he's to ... stay, more often that is, Aziraphale will have to insist.

"Say it again?" Crowley asks, soft and almost wistful between them, as if he imagines that -- should Aziraphale not respond -- they can pretend the words were never uttered. 

"Stay," Aziraphale repeats, meeting Crowley's never-to-be-mistaken eyes and putting just a touch of angelic authority into his voice. "I wish you would."

"Well," Crowley says, clearing his throat after a moment of silence. "When you put it like that."

And Aziraphale says firmly: "I do."


End file.
